Russian Roulette
by Brunette
Summary: I saw a guy get blown away doin' this.


_Author's Note: Okay, if my reason for writing this doesn't creep you out ... well, then I guess you don't get creeped out much, or you're inspired in weird, creepy ways the way I am. I wrote this because, not so long ago, I read Bugliosi and Gentry's_ Helter-Skelter_, which, if you don't know, is about the Manson murders. One of the guys in the Manson "family" was killed (they suspect that other family members killed him for fear he would talk, but there's no physical evidence) while playing Russian Roulette. That was basically the stimulant for writing this story. I thought, "What could possibly be more intense than a round of Russian Roulette?" And then I thought, "Ooh, this could make a kick-ass contest fic, when another contest comes around." So here we go._

_I want to say now that this was written in a very odd style. I wanted to make the conversation more detailed than the narration, and I wanted to create a sort of breath-holding, heart-beat atmosphere. If it's odd, it's supposed to be. _

_Disclaimer: If they belonged to me, you'd know it._

* * *

Russian Roulette

Racetrack's eyes on the stack of cards. Nervous. Waiting. Hoping. Jack's yawn. Skittery's lice biting his scalp. Blink's boredom. Spot Conlon's arrogant smirk. A glance to the clock. Racetrack's invisible wince. 9:00. Still early. Too much poker. Not enough beer. Stakes too low. Racetrack's hand reaches for the cards. A palm over his knuckles. Spot Conlon's sparkling eyes. Shifting. Crowd-pleasing. Skeptic gazes. Spot Conlon's confidence. Arrogance. Racetrack's haunting premonition. Something bad. Unknown. But something very, very bad.

"I gotta new game."

Interests perk. Racetrack's benefit of the doubt. Jack's sitting up. Skittery's scratching cease. Blink's animated readiness. Spot Conlon's grin. Moves his hand. Reaches behind. Lantern light glints on metal. Wicked toy takes centerstage.

Skittery's question:

"Where'd you get that?"

Spot Conlon's shrug. "It's mine."

Kid Blink's wonder:

"Whadda we doin'?"

Racetrack's skepticism:

"I ain't robbin' nobody. I ain't got Cowboy's luck, and they'd sure lock me up for good."

Jack's laugh. Spot Conlon's mysterious smirk.

"You ever heard 'a Russian Roulette?"

Jaws drop. Nervous glances. Chewed lips. Utter silence. Jack's pride:

"Sure we heard 'a it. You think Brooklyn's the only place with danger?"

Spot Conlon's scoff. "Whatever you say, Jacky-Boy."

Twisted tension.

"You guys wanna play?"

Indifferent facades. Slouched countenances. Prayers of protest. Masculine shrugs.

Spot Conlon's leer. "Ya ain't _scared?"_

Bruised machisimo. Snapping gazes. Mumbling protests.

" 'A course not!"

"I play all the time!"

"Whadda ya gettin' at, Brooklyn?"

Spot Conlon's cruelty. "Good. I got a bullet right here. Who wantsta start?"

Coughs. Averted eyes. Stubborn gazes. Dark pride. Jack Kelly's testosterone:

"I'll start, Spot."

"Good deal. We'll go in a circle -- Jack, me, Skits, Blink, and Race. If ya get scared, fire at the floor. If it's empty, ya're out. If it's the shot, you win. If ya don't think it's the bullet, put it to yah temple. Got?"

Grumblings.

The bullet. Slick metal rolling on his palm. Spot Conlon's smirk. Clicking mechanism. Jack's smirk. Racetrack's skepticism:

"Ya didn't even put the bullet in! This is all some hoax tah get us noivous!"

Jack's shrug. Spot Conlon's challenge:

"Then I guess you got all the confidence when the gun comes around to you, huh?"

Racetrack's brooding silence. Skittery's mocking laugh. Kid Blink's lit cigarette. The scrape of metal against wood. Jack's glance downward. The gleam of steel. Fingers curl around the butt. Jack's nonchalance. Barrel pressed against temple. Cold metal against warm flesh. Dark eyes flashing. Tongue wetting lips. Endearing shrug. Squeezed trigger.

Empty clicking.

Sighs of relief. Nervous laughter. Kid Blink's drag. The dissinterested pass. Spot Conlon's arrogance. Expert grip. Cool boredom. Snapping fingers. Kid Blink's cigarette passed across the table. Simultaneous drag and squeezing trigger.

Expected empty clicking.

Spot Conlon's shrug. Kid Blink's cigarette returned. The gun cradled in two hands. Skittery's bitten lip. Dark eyes fleeting.

"I saw a guy get blown away doin' this."

Spot Conlon's raised brow. Skittery's tense muscles. Tough grip. Raised gun. Barrel pressed hard against temple. A brand. Heavy pause. Heightened adrenaline. Returning threat. Death to relief.

Spot Conlon's plaintive wonder:

"Can ya do it?"

Skittery's eyes squeezed shut. Breath held. Pulled trigger. Gasping breaths.

Nothing.

Jack's quiet chuckle. Sweaty palms. Racetrack's sigh. Kid Blink's reluctant eye. Skittery's eagerness to pass the pistol on. Skittery's hand through his hair. Skittery's exiting footsteps. Spot Conlon's mocking laugh.

"He's throwin' up."

Racetrack's foreboding glare. Spot Conlon's determination to ignore him. Kid Blink's hand around the gun. Kid Blink's gaze about the remaining boys.

"I think this one's it."

Kid Blink's aim at the floorboards. Jack Kelly's interest. Racetrack's hope. A squeezed trigger. An empty click.

Spot Conlon's declaration.

"Kid's out."

Racetrack's careful stare. Spot Conlon's manevolent eyes.

"It's either this one or the next. That's a fifty-fifty chance, Race."

The biting retort.

"I can figger odds, Spot."

Spot Conlon's held up hands. Appology.

"Sorry, Race. Didn't mean tah upsetcha."

Racetrack's quipping retort:

"Shut up."

Spot Conlon's play on nerves.

"Ya gonna take it, Race? Ya still so sure there ain't no bullet?"

Jack Kelly's interested eyes. Kid Blink's brow furrowed in concentration.

"I wouldn't take it, Race."

Racetrack's tightened lips. Trembling fingers. Glinting metal.

Spot Conlon's jeering.

"Ah, there ain't no bullet, right, Race? He was so damn sure, remember. Ain't no bullet at all. I'm just makin' you's riled. Right, Race?"

The sweaty grip. Shaking arm. Aim at the floor.

"Ain't so sure, then, huh? Guess you was wrong, Race. You's too scared to act on yah own ideas."

Racetrack's foreboding gaze. Racetrack's bruised pride. Arm raised. Barrel to temple. Hot metal. Nervous eyes.

Jack's second thought.

"Race, I don't think --"

Racetrack's glinting anger. "This is all a joke, huh? Real funny, guys. Real funny."

Jack's gaze jerking to Spot's. The wonder. The silent question. The held-off reply.

Kid Blink's attempted persuasion.

"Fifty-fifty, Race. It ain't worth it. What if it's there?"

Racetrack's steady glare.

Spot Conlon's challenging return.

Jack's plaintive:

"This ain't funny no more. Race --"

A squeezed trigger.


End file.
